


When Opposites Align

by ishwishfish



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishwishfish/pseuds/ishwishfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to terms with the legacy of Kirkwall sets Commander Cullen on the path to an unlikely friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Wounds

“One drink, Curly, that's all I'm asking. Would it kill you to put in an appearance at the tavern?”

“I do _not_ have the time, Varric. Maker's breath, how many times must I repeat it?”

The Chantry building, re-purposed to serve as the Inquisition's makeshift headquarters, was all but deserted at this hour, yet candlelight still illuminated the war room and voices rose behind its solid door. A grand table, its polished surface covered almost in its entirety by an expansive map of southern Thedas, dominated the room. Commander Cullen stood at its far end, a collection of reports spread out before him.

Varric leaned against the table's opposite side, grinning. “Give it a few dozen more tries, and I might start to get the message. Or maybe you'll decide that finding the time would be less of a headache than convincing me you can't.”

Cullen rolled his eyes and lifted the next page from the pile of papers, his attention shifting between news from the Hinterlands and his uninvited guest. “Why are you doing this, Varric? Looking for material for your next book? Or is this part of some other project?”

Varric spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I'm a storyteller with no audience. In other words, desperate. Any other day I'd go to Ruffles, but she's got her hands full with an Orlesian Duke and his twin sister.”

Cullen set the page aside and reached for another, his tone dry. “I can only imagine. What about Solas? I understand he has a fondness for stories.”

“Not the way I tell them,” came the smirking reply. “Besides, I'm trying to avoid mages with strange obsessions. They're bad for my health..”

“Blackwall?”

“He's got important brooding to do.”

“The Herald, then.”

Varric hesitated, his expression sobering. “I've... considered it.”

Cullen glanced up from his paper shuffling. While the details changed from day to day, they'd repeated this exchange more times than he could recall. The argument had grown almost comforting in its reliably irritating familiarity. Varric's shift in tone was an unwelcome departure from their usual patterns.

Varric's hands moved at the table's edge, finally settling upon a mabari statuette that marked a position deep in the Kocari Wilds. He snatched it up and weighed it in his palm.

“And?” Cullen said at last, biting back his impatience.

“The Herald of Andraste,” Varric mused, studying the mabari. “Chosen by the Maker, marked by Prophet Herself. “A fixture at the local tavern” doesn't exactly fit.” He replaced the figurine. “Of course, they would have said the same thing about the Champion. But only because that was all most of them ever saw. The Champion.” He pronounced the title flatly, then cast a shrewd look towards Cullen. “Only a handful of us knew Marian Hawke.”

The Commander met the dwarf's gaze in silence, his expression settling into its customary, stern lines. Varric looked down at the sprawling map. “I've been thinking about her, lately. A lot.”

Across the table, Cullen's face began to harden. Their shared past, such as it was, could be best described as a decade-long series of events centered around the woman once known as the Champion of Kirkwall, and culminating in the destruction of much of the city. It was a subject Cullen had been studiously avoiding since Varric's arrival in Haven. Up until now, the dwarf had seemed to share his reluctance to revisit the past, much to Cullen's surprise and relief. Yet he had always had the suspicion that these memories were what drove Varric to seek him out time and again. For better or worse, at least they _had_ a history. But that didn't mean Cullen wanted to talk about it.

“Do you ever wonder how things got so out of control back in Kirkwall? I mean, how could one city hold so much crazy?” Varric continued. “Not that I really thought about it at the time. Too busy telling myself that, hey, at least it couldn't get any worse, right?” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “So much for the power of imagination. That was just one city; now we're talking about the end of the world. But once you look past the scale of it, some things start to feel almost familiar, like a bad dream you keep having. Take Hawke, for instance –”

“Forgive me,” Cullen cut in, sharply, “but I am in no mood to reminisce. Not about Hawke, of all people. Or Kirkwall. Or anything else, besides.” With a brusque gesture, he swept the scattered papers into a single pile and straightened, shoulders squaring. “I believe we're finished here. If you'll excuse me.” The request carried the weight of an order.

Varric studied the Commander, his face grown suddenly weary, then turned away. “If you say so.” Four rolling strides took him to the door, where he paused, hand on the latch. “But let me offer you a piece of advice. This – all of this – the Herald, the Breach, the Inquisition.” His free arm swept in a gesture that encompassed the room, from floor to ceiling and across the war table. “It's big. Too big to control. Do yourself a favor: don't start thinking that you're directing it, or that maybe you _could_ if you just worked yourself a little harder. You can't, no matter how many reports you read or how many pieces you have on your game board there.”

Cullen did not look up from the stack of reports. “Is that what you came here to tell me, Varric? It's the end of the world, but there's nothing to be done about it, so I shouldn't worry myself?”

Varric's grin held little amusement. “It hasn't ended _yet_. I'm just saying you should ease up a bit. Take a break once in a while. I've seen what happens when good people hang on too tightly to things they can't possibly manage. They have a way of getting consumed. And maybe I don't want to see the same thing happen to you.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I'm just in love with the sound of my own voice. Take your pick.”

“I wouldn't argue that last point,” Cullen replied, with a wry smile. The expected retort never arrived, and he lifted his eyes. Varric still stood at the door, in solemn silence. It was disquieting, and Cullen grasped for a way to lighten the mood. “Is this the point when you tell me you've seen it all before? Or – how did that line go? – that you're getting too old for this shit?”

A touch of dry humor returned to Varric's voice. “Commander, I'm astonished. That almost sounded like you were trying to make a joke.” He sighed and pushed down on the door latch. “And for the record, no, I'm not _that_ old. I haven't seen it all, either. Just more than I would like.” The door swung open, and he added, “We have that much in common.”

Cullen blinked, considering, then conceded the point with a tilt of his head. “I suppose we do.”

“You have a good night, Curly. Try to remember to sleep.” Varric touched fingertips to his brow in a casual salute and stepping out, closing the door behind him.

Cullen stared at the door, then eased back from the table. It had been a long night, and there was much he had yet to finish. He glanced down at the map, sighed and reached out to correct the position of the mabari statuette. Varric had left it ever so slightly out of place.


	2. A Polite Request

“I suppose you've heard about our visitor?” Varric asked from the open doorway, a half-dozen paces and one stout desk between himself and the Commander. His caution was understandable, given Cullen's expression.

“I was informed of her arrival. Immediately after the council session concluded, in fact.” Cullen's tone was clipped; his hands gripped the edges of his desk. He shot a hard look at Varric. “She has _remarkable_ timing, considering how recently our relocation became public knowledge.”

Varric smiled uneasily. “She's a remarkable woman, Curly. But I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation...” He held up his hands placatingly, only to drop them again in the face of Cullen's stony silence. “Or not. Fine. Yes, I've been keeping her informed. She needed to know.”

“That wasn't your decision to make.”

“Believe it not, I _wanted_ to tell you.” Varric snuck another glance at Cullen's unmoving visage and threw up his hands. “Andraste's breath, what else do you want me to say? Yes, it was a mistake. I'm sorry. I can't go back and change it no matter how hard you glare at me.” When no reply came, he continued, “Have you talked to her? That's all I came here to ask.”

Cullen ground out the words. “I have not.”

“Would you consider it?”

Cullen straightened, but continued to stare at the surface of his desk, jaw working. He could barely focus on the pages spread out across it; the reports swirled together in a meaningless jumble of letters and figures. The headaches had been worse today, and this conversation was not helping. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“Understand this, Varric. I will exchange such pleasantries with her as courtesy requires, but I have no interest in a – a _social_ call.” His left hand was beginning to shake; he clenched it to still the tremors. “After what she did to Kirkwall, I'm astonished that you think I would have _any_ interest in...”

“No! Don't you lay that on her!” Varric advanced a step, thrusting a finger at Cullen. “The mess Blondie – _Anders_ – made, was his own doing. Hawke had no part in that!”

Cullen answered Varric's outburst with a look of heavy doubt. “Are you so sure of that, Varric?”

Varric only scowled harder. “You were _there_ , Curly; she was as surprised as anyone. Yes, she loved him. Maybe you can't understand that – Maker, I don't even know if _I_ can understand it. But Kirkwall was her home, _her_ city. You think she _wanted_ it ripped apart?” His head shook. “And he didn't tell her, I promise you that. He didn't breathe a word of it. If he had, she would have done everything in her power to stop him.”

“ _Everything?”_

Varric had no answer for that. After all had been said and done, Anders had left the Gallows alive and in Hawke's company. However much the apostate might have deserved it, or wanted it, or asked for it, death was one thing his lover had been unwilling to give him. Perhaps it had been the only thing.

“She only ever wanted to do the right thing,” he insisted. “She wanted an end to the fighting. She gave everything she had to make it happen, and it wasn't enough.” He shot an accusatory look across the desk. “But that wasn't _her_ fault. You, of all people, should be able to understand that.”

Stung, Cullen dropped his gaze. They shared an uncomfortable silence, until Varric muttered, “I'm just asking you to talk to her. That's all.”

Cullen folded his arms, head cocking skeptically, though he did not meet Varric's eyes. “And what would that accomplish, exactly?”

“Does it have to “accomplish” anything?” Varric waved at the mound of paperwork atop Cullen's desk. “Maybe I just think it would do you some good to get away from all _this_ for a little while. Human contact outside of working hours, remember that? Besides,” he added, “you two weren't _always_ at odds.”

Frowning, Cullen turned to the window slit. Below, a merchant caravan inched its way across the massive bridge that was the only connection between Skyhold and the outside world. The icy riverbed stretched out far beneath it, while all around them, the mountain peaks rose to dizzying heights, their jagged, snow-crusted peaks glittering in the sun. On a good day, the view took his breath away. Today, he hardly noticed it.

“She killed Templars, Varric. My... colleagues. Men and women who were only doing their duty.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Meredith was never able to prove it to the Viscount's satisfaction, but you know as well as I...”

Varric spoke bluntly. “Some people deserve no less. Alrik was a monster.” He paused for breath, then said, in a softer tone. “I'm sure there were decent people among the Templars he commanded. But they didn't leave her much choice. And do I need to mention all of the times she _helped_ the Order, and you, specifically? But you know all that, Curly; now you're just looking for excuses.”

That it was true only made it more difficult to swallow. Cullen stared down at his folded arms. “I... all right, Varric. I'll talk to her. I can't promise you anything more than that.”

“Thanks, Curly. That's all I was asking.” Varric relaxed, relief clear on his face. He glanced over his shoulder, out towards the wall. “To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about her.”

Cullen turned at that, brow furrowing. “Worried? Why?”

It took Varric a moment to answer, and even then he could only gesture vaguely. “You'll see.”

Cullen looked towards the door. “If you're concerned about her,” he said, uneasily, “why did you come to me?”

“Lack of options,” Varric replied immediately, then ran a hand over his face. “That sounded funnier in my head. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe it's because you might just be the only other person in Skyhold who could even begin to understand what she's been through.”

“You understand I haven't seen her since –”

“It'll be fine, Curly. Trust me. Hawke was never one to hold a grudge.”

“That's not exactly reassuring, Varric.”


	3. A Reunion of Sorts

It had seemed such an easy concession to make, in the security of his office.  But up on the wall, in the stark, unforgiving glare of the midday sun, Cullen felt a knot growing in his belly: nervous anticipation, as well as something else – _fear, be honest, it's fear._ But it wasn't until he saw her, loitering outside the corner tower, that his stride faltered.

He hadn't seen her since that final moment at the foot of the Gallows: both of them blood-splattered and panting with exhaustion and adrenaline, while Knight-Commander Meredith's remains smouldered in the background.  He'd fought at her side, there at the very end – _but only there, and only then_ came the familiar, shameful whisper – but what he saw in her face when the fighting was done had shaken him to the core.

There had been nothing in her face save a terrifying, inhuman calm, a look wiped clean of pity, of fear, of all trace of recognizable emotion.  There was nothing of the woman he'd known, however imperfectly, nothing left in her eyes but a promise of a swift death for anyone brave or foolish enough to stray into her path.  She had been a hawk in truth, and all before her trembling hares.  It had taken every ounce of will he could muster merely to step back, to clear the way for her, and to direct the other Templars to do the same, when all his instincts had screamed to turn and run.  It was a scene that had repeated itself countless times in his nightmares.

Today, she looked merely tired, leaning against the battlements with her face turned towards the mountains.  Something in the slump of her shoulders and the distance of her gaze brought to mind the refugees that had stumbled into Haven in the days following the explosion at the Conclave.  He found himself wanting to offer her his cloak and a bowl of hot soup.  The impulse was unexpected, to say the least.

If Varric caught any of hint what passed across the Commander's face in that moment, he gave no sign, but dropped back a pace and waved Cullen on.

“Knight-Captain,” she said as he approached, turning with a smile even more weary than he had anticipated.  Her eyes, when they met his, were duller than he remembered.  The force of presence she had once projected was gone, as if worn away by the intervening years.   She was no longer The Champion.  Now she was just a woman, exhausted and beaten down.  He suddenly understood Varric's concern.

She was quick to recognize her mistake, regardless of her state of mind.  “Excuse me. Knight-Comman-- no, not that, either.  It's just Commander, now, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” he said, working to swallow his discomfort.  “Even I struggle to keep up with the changes.”  He glanced at his boots.  “Forgive me. I am... not entirely sure what I should call you.”

“I'm going by Hawke, these days,” she replied, with faint amusement.  “It's just like old times.”

He laughed, briefly, at that.  “No, it really isn't.”

“You look,” she paused, scrutinizing him, “awful.  As if you hadn't slept in weeks.”  But she smiled as she said it, and he caught a glimpse of the Hawke that he recalled from their earliest meetings.  Kind, but with a mocking undertone.  Small wonder that she and Varric had become fast friends.

He couldn't help but chuckle, his hand rising to the back of his neck.  “I haven't,” he admitted, gazing out towards the mountains.  “Recent events have been... trying.”  She let out a knowing murmur, and he hazarded a sidelong look in her direction.  “You aren't looking particularly well, yourself.  If I may say so.”

“I believe you just did,” Hawke replied coolly, her attention turning back to the icy summits.  “But, yes, I've been better.”

An awkward silence fell upon them, and Cullen struggled to think of something more to say.  Taking into consideration the topics that were tacitly off-limits – Anders and all of his works, the mage rebellion, and most of that terrible final year in Kirkwall – there wasn't much left to talk about.

She straightened after a minute.  “I'll be leaving for Crestwood in the morning.  I suppose I ought to speak with your chief scout while I have the opportunity.  Harding, wasn't it?”

Cullen flinched and reached out to her.  “Hawke, wait.”  The air would never be completely clear between them, but some amends were still within his power to make.

His fingers trembled near her shoulder, almost but not quite touching.  “I'd wanted to say... about the Knight-Commander. Meredith.  You warned me, and I – to the very end, I refused to listen.  For what it's worth, I am sorry.”  He took a breath and withdrew his hand.  “I have often wondered, since... if I had acted sooner, if I had done more, would it have –?”

“Cullen, stop.”  She stilled him with a touch, fingertips brushing against his arm.  “You did what you could.  The blame isn't yours to bear.”  She paused, as if considering her words, then looked away again, gaze settling on the nearest peak.

“I ask myself the same question, you know.”  Her eyes narrowed against the glare of sunlight upon snow. “ Almost every day.  I tell myself that it wouldn't have made a difference.  That some things cannot be changed, or prevented, no matter how hard we try.  That trying is all that really matters, in the end.”

She shrugged half-heartedly.  “Some days, I almost believe it.”

Cullen watched her cautiously.  “If you wish to join us,” he ventured, “the Inquisition would welcome your aid.  I'm certain the Herald could benefit from your experience.”

Hawke laughed hollowly.  “You can't possibly mean that.”  Her head shook, firmly no.  “I'm doing what I can, but beyond that, my presence would do the Inquisition more harm than good.”  She lifted her chin, staring off towards something too far away to see.  “Once this matter with Stroud is resolved, I will return to... where I was before.”

She fell back into silence, _Anders_ hanging unmentioned in the air between them.  The idea did not appear to please her.  “I used to dream of what it would be like, to be free from Kirkwall,” she murmured.  “I was wrong.  It is nothing like what I dreamed.”

He knew that he should turn away and leave her to her thoughts, troubled as they might be.  It was the least that she deserved, no matter what Varric might claim.  She had chosen to bind herself to that murderous abomination, after all.

But he did not turn.  “I'm sorry,” he said, not knowing whether he meant it.

Hawke bowed her head.  “Take care not to cling to your regrets, to hold them so tightly that they poison your soul.”  She spoke as though reciting a passage from a book, one he did not recognize, then turned to meet his questioning stare.  There was defiance in her eyes, almost as if she had known his thoughts.  “Words spoken by someone much wiser than me, Commander.  Perhaps you'll pay them more heed than I have.”

She stepped away from him, towards the stairs.

“Do you remember Keran?” he called, acting on a sudden whim.

“Keran?”  She paused and looked back.  “You mean, the recruit?  The one who got kidnapped?  I remember him.  I thought he left the Order?”

Cullen nodded.  “He did.  And his family left Kirkwall, shortly before the... the uprising.  They ended up in Starkhaven.”

She studied him quizzically, and Cullen found himself grasping for the right words.

“I... I received a letter from him, not long ago.  He's coming to Skyhold.  He hasn't held a weapon since leaving Kirkwall, but he can't sit idly by while the world falls apart.  He wants to join the Inquisition.”

Hawke looked puzzled.  “The last time I saw him, it didn't seem that he... .  Why would he do that?  He must be safe enough in Starkhaven.  And he's got his family to consider.”

Cullen shrugged.  “It was what you would have done, apparently.”

“I can't imagine anyone wanting to follow in _my_ footsteps,” Hawke said flatly.

“Why not?” he asked.  “You worked harder than anyone to bring peace and stability to Kirkwall.  Those were admirable goals.  You cannot take the blame for the actions of... of _others_.”

Hawke did not answer immediately, though the piercing look she gave him screamed _can't I_?  She leaned against the battlements, staring out over Skyhold's towers.  Gradually, her expression cleared.  “It's strange...” she began, then frowned and shook her head. “ No, not 'strange.'  Reassuring, I should say.”

“What is?”

“You.”  She smiled at his immediate and obvious confusion, and indicated the sprawling fortress with a wave of her hand.  “This.  What the Inquisition has built.  An army drawn from all corners of Thedas – even mages and templars, working as allies.  The Herald herself is a mage, isn't she?  And you stand at her side.  She is a remarkable woman.”

“Yes, she is.”  Cullen didn't trust himself to say more regarding the Inquisitor, for a wellspring of feeling had opened in the center of his chest at her mention.  As it was, he spoke with far more warmth than he had intended.  Varric, loitering unobtrusively nearby, turned his head with some surprise, then pressed his lips together to keep from grinning.

Hawke appeared not to notice.  “We spoke only briefly, but what she's accomplished here – what you all have accomplished. It's astonishing.”  Her voice had grown wistful, and she gave herself a little shake, as if shrugging off an uncomfortable garment.  “It's not something I expected to see.  Not so soon after the rebellion, and perhaps not ever.  But to know that such a thing is possible.  It... it gives me hope.”

She slipped away from the wall and moved closer, as quick and graceful as a cat, her blue eyes meeting his amber with a directness that had always been a part of their more pleasant interactions.  While he couldn't say that her expression was happy, exactly, it was certainly _happier_.

“Thank you.  I'm glad we had the chance to speak.  I told Varric I didn't think you'd ever agree to it,” she shot a look in the dwarf's direction, “but it seems he's gotten to know you better than I thought.”

“It seems he has.”  Cullen glanced Varric's way.  He caught Hawke's movement in the corner of his eye, and suddenly her lips were pressed against his cheek.  He started, blushing.  It was only a fleeting kiss; by the time he could react she was already stepping backwards, her smile fond.

“Maker go with you, Commander.”  In the space of a heartbeat she had vanished down the stairs.

Cullen swallowed and touched his face.  “That was... unexpected.”

Varric was staring at the spot Hawke had last occupied.  “We can all agree on that much.”  He drew a breath and held it, head cocked alertly.  Nearly a minute had elapsed before he turned to Cullen, an expectant gleam in his eyes.  “But now that I'm sure she's out of earshot, there's something I have to know.  That recruit, Keran – did he really write that?”

Cullen met the dwarf's scrutiny without expression, then offered a non-committal shrug.  “He might have. Does it matter?”

Varric snorted, head shaking.  “I suppose it doesn't.”  He fixed the taller man with an assessive look.  “You surprise me sometimes, Curly.”

Cullen smirked.  “I'll take that as a compliment.”

Varric made a quiet, agreeable humming in the back of his throat and rocked back on his heels, then shot Cullen a sly glance.  “Speaking of surprises.  You and the Inquisitor, eh?  I knew she'd been coming to see you, but all this time I thought you were just discussing troop movements.”

Cullen's smirk vanished into thin air.  “What?  N-no, we... I mean, I... . No! Of course not.  Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're adorable when you blush.  But relax: your secret is safe with me.”  Varric's smile was immensely self-satisfied.  He rubbed his hands together briskly.  “It occurs to me that the Rest is only a flight of stairs away.  How about a drink?  My treat.”

Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  The headache had returned, in full force.  “Another time, Varric.”


	4. Before the Battle

Varric was incorrigible after that. Once word reached him about the Inquisitor's private sparring sessions, a practice she and the Commander had begun mere weeks before the army left for Adamant and had continued during their march, he could hardly contain himself.

“I assure you, it's nothing more than what it seems, Varric.”

As spacious as Cullen's field tent was – though most of it was given over to tables, charts and maps, with only a cot and a small footlocker to suggest that it might see any use other than as the army's makeshift headquarters – it seemed narrow and oppressive so long as the dwarf was present, and pursuing this particular line of questioning.

Varric leaned against a map table, his manner overly casual. “Really? I'm glad to hear it, for both your sakes. Because it certainly seems like _something_.”

“You know what I meant,” Cullen muttered. “She required supplementary training and felt I was best suited for the task.”

“I'm sure she did, the dwarf said knowingly.”

Cullen could have torn his hair in frustration, but settled for pacing the length of the tent. “Would you please stop... impugning her motives? We have no idea what we'll be facing at Adamant and she needs to be prepared. It was a wise course of action. Nothing more.”

“You're saying she can't be motivated by more than one thing?” Varric looked entirely unconvinced.

“I'm saying our relationship is strictly professional, and I would ask you to remember that. Anything else would be... would be inappropriate.”

Cullen lifted a hand to massage his brow. Exhaustion was taking its toll on him, but he'd found it almost impossible to rest during the march. There was too much to be done in preparation for the siege. In truth, it was a wonder he could find time to spar with the Inquisitor. But he had managed, even if it meant neglecting more mundane tasks such as eating and sleeping. He couldn't deny her. If he was being entirely honest, training with her was one pleasure he found he couldn't deny himself.

Varric said nothing, and Cullen found his silence suddenly infuriating.

“Whatever impression I _may_ have given you, we are in the middle of a war. Perhaps you hadn't noticed. Neither she nor I have time for this sort of... of _petty distraction_.” The words came out even sharper than he had intended.

Varric appeared more disappointed than hurt. “Curly, you really ought to reconsider. You could use a petty distraction right about now.”

“ _No_ , Varric. In any event, it's better this way. For both of us.” He halted before one wall of the tent, ostensibly to study a drawing pinned there: a rough sketch of the fortress and its surroundings, courtesy of Leliana's scouts. He stared at it, and saw only the Herald's face. “My opinions on the matter are secondary.”

“Your self-sacrifice does you no credit, Commander,” Varric remarked dryly. “Have you ever caught sight of yourself in a mirror when you're talking about her?”

“No.” Cullen eyed him warily. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You should try it sometime. Because when you talk about her, you actually look _happy_. And that's kind of a big deal, for you.”

Cullen frowned, but cast a look towards his footlocker. He had a mirror. The dwarf's assertion might be worth testing. The last thing he needed was to raise more suspicions. _Her_ suspicions least of all. “I doubt she regards me as anything more than an advisor.”

“Mm,” Varric made no attempt to conceal a smug smile. “Dorian would disagree with that assessment. Quite strongly, in fact.”

Cullen snorted. “Dorian is an even bigger gossip than you. If such a thing is possible.”

“I, a mere gossip?” Varric's eyes widened, his hands clasping his chest in a gesture of mock anguish. “You wound me, ser.”

“At any rate,” Cullen continued, “I don't appreciate my personal affairs serving as... as _fodder_ for your Wicked Grace sessions.”

“So you _were_ listening when I mentioned those? Good.” Varric grinned. “I've still got a seat reserved for you, if you'd ever care to join us. But, no. I swore I wouldn't divulge your secrets, and my lips have remained sealed. It's the Inquisitor, not you, who made a poor choice in confidant.”

Cullen twisted around with a look of sudden, intense interest. “Do you mean she's actually _said_ something to him about –”

Varric smiled like a cat who'd stumbled upon a dish of cream. “Oh-ho, so now you're interested in gossip, Curly?” He tapped a forefinger against the side of his nose. “But you have to bear in mind that “said” is a very strong word. She's far too well-bred to be that careless. Still, clues have been left, hints dropped, inferences made... .”

Cullen turned away to hide his irritation, and his disappointment. “Why do I bother?” He snatched up a report at random, and gestured towards the tent flap with his free hand. “Please excuse me, Varric. I want to get through these before dawn.”

Varric let out an exasperated sigh. “What you want isn't always the same as what you need, Curly. But if you insist.” He ducked out under the tent flap.

 

* * *

 

The camp was remarkably still at this hour, quiet save for the buzz of night insects and the occasional stamp or snort of a horse on the picket line. It was too dark to see the sentries dotting the ridge line, but the valley was bathed in the gentle glow of innumerable smouldering camp fires. Tents ringed them, silent and still, like mounds of earth.

_Like burial mounds_ , came the thought, unbidden and decidedly unwelcome. Varric grimaced, trying to dispel the image. The forces in Adamant couldn't help but be aware of their approach, and he did not like to think of what awaited them there. He didn't envy Cullen: the man had an enormous task ahead of him.

There was a furtive movement in the shadows as he stepped away from the Commander's tent; startled, Varric swung about, only to find Cole by his side. He relaxed at once, having grown more or less accustomed to the boy's sudden appearances, and tipped his head in friendly greeting.

“Evening, kid.  Something on your mind?”

Cole's brow furrowed beneath his unruly shock of hair.  “I don't understand.  They care about each other.  Why is he afraid?”

“Would it make any sense at all if I told you that that's exactly why he's afraid?  No?”  Varric sighed deeply.  “I'm sorry, Cole.  It's... complicated.”

“Can we help?”

Varric mulled over the question, turning to look towards the tent behind them. Finally, he shook his head.  “I wish we could.  But I think they're just going to have to work this out on their own.”


	5. Adamant

He hadn't seen her fall, thank the Maker. It would have driven him to his knees in despair. But he'd rushed to the site immediately once he'd heard, to join the soldiers clawing through the rubble in search of a sign, in search of anything. He couldn't say how long he dug. It felt like an eternity, while the shouts of the men faded into the background and his ears filled with his own gasping breaths. His hands moved as if of their own accord, grabbing and lifting and setting aside: one more piece of stone, move just one more and he'd find her. The thought terrified him almost as much as the thought of _not_ finding her.

Later, when he had had time to consider it, he knew that only minutes could have elapsed before the tear opened in their midst, scattering the soldiers. Its edges writhed, green and yellow and _wrong_ , a twisting hole in the world that left you nauseated if you stared at it too long. He found himself clambering towards it with wild intent, no thought in his head but to reach her, even if it meant throwing himself through that accursed portal. The broken ground slid and shifted beneath his steps, slowing him to what seemed a crawl. He nearly wept with frustration.

Then, Andraste be praised, they stumbled forth.

The Grey Warden, Stroud, emerged first, followed by Solas and Blackwall. He caught a glimpse of more figures, their outlines blurring against the edges of the breach, and then _she_ appeared at last, Cole dragging her through while she pulled back, away from him and, inconceivably, _towards_ the rift, her arm stretched forth and the mark on her hand blazing. Blackwall turned back, adding his strength to Cole's, and together they forced her away, down the pile of shattered stone. The tear sewed itself shut with a sound like a whip-crack.

The Inquisitor staggered, but Cullen wasn't close enough to catch her as she fell. One of the soldiers did instead, and he fought back the impulse to push the man aside and gather her in his arms. The others stared vacantly, their expressions dazed and disbelieving. He could hear Varric somewhere close at hand, but the dwarf's voice was just a buzz.

He knelt, struggling with clumsy, shaking fingers to brush the matted hair away from her face. She was drawn and pale, and he felt iron bands tightening around his chest. He had seen her like this before, half-dead in the snow outside Haven. He had told her, had _promised_ her, that it would not happen again. “We need a healer, NOW,” he barked, to no one in particular.

“No – no healer, please. I'm not injured.” Her voice cut through the haze, weaker than he would have liked, but her eyes were open and focused on him. She reached up and caught his hand in her own, using it to pull herself into a seated position. “Cullen. We... we left her behind.” Her voice was anguished, and at first he could not grasp her meaning. It was only then that he realized Hawke was not with them.


	6. Aftermath

They had known that the siege would be brutal, but the casualty reports made for sobering reading all the same. Yet despite heavy losses, the army of the Inquisition had held. They had been bloodied, but they had held. Cullen could take some satisfaction in that.

Whether _he_ would hold was another question entirely. The tremors, the headaches, the nightmares: all had worsened since the siege. He was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain focus, and that was undoubtedly impairing his judgement. He couldn't say whether the troops, or his fellow advisors, had noticed. If they hadn't yet, it was only a matter of time.

Had his preparations for Adamant been likewise affected? He had no way of knowing, but the thought ate at him. He could not deny the possibility – no, the inevitability – that future operations would be compromised by his weakness. The Inquisition could not afford it. He would not allow it. He had not yet spoken with Cassandra, but he did not doubt that the Seeker would approve of his chosen course of action. It was, after all, the course they had agreed upon. Under the circumstances, it was the only reasonable response.

All that remained was to inform the Inquisitor.

_Inquisitor, I regret to inform you_

_Inquisitor Trevelyan, it is with the deepest regret that I_

_Forgive me, Evelyn_

The lines swam on the page before his tired eyes; had he actually written that last one? He drew a firm line through it, then crumpled the paper in his fist. He needed to clear his head. The letter could wait for a few hours, perhaps even until the morning. In the meantime, he had another duty to perform.

He had placed a folded report, several pages thick, on the very corner of his desk, its careful balance a deliberate reminder, for he couldn't stride past without disturbing it. He would have to deal with it, one way or another. This was not going to be a pleasant errand – but, then, so few of them were these days. He picked it up and strode from his office.

 

* * *

 

The mood in the Herald's Rest was subdued, as it had been since their return, but there was still noise enough to drown out the whispers that crowded in the back of his mind. Their song was quiet, but insidious; it spoke of failure, and weakness, and raw need. He tried to ignore it and focus on the task at hand.

Varric was seated at a corner table. He was alone, as Cullen had expected. The dwarf had withdrawn from their company after the events at Adamant, and spent most of the return journey in his tent, or riding apart from the group. Attempts to make conversation or offer condolences had been politely rebuffed and, after a time, the rest of the Inquisitor's inner circle had stopped trying. The strength of his grief had left them at a loss; it served as an unpleasant reminder that, for all their familiarity with his stories and quips, none of them really knew Varric.

None of them, save perhaps for Cullen, who had found himself in the unexpected and rather uncomfortable position of being the closest thing that Varric had to a friend. Perhaps that explained why the dwarf had broken his silence long enough to make one request of the Commander.

Varric turned his head slightly in acknowledgement as Cullen approached his table, but did not look up.

“I... have the full report here,” Cullen said. “If you still wanted to read it.” He unfolded it, and frowned to see a fresh, and all-too-familiar, postscript scribbled at the bottom of the first page. “It appears Cole has added a few observations of his own.”

He held out the papers, but Varric waved them away, not meeting Cullen's eye. His voice was as dull as his expression. “I know I asked, but... just give me the brief version, Curly. I don't want you to think you came all the way down here for nothing.”

Cullen glanced at the report. He knew its contents almost by heart. “If that's all you want, then I'm not sure what I could tell you that you don't already know,” he said. Varric made no reply, and he continued, “The Inquisitor opened a rift while falling from the fortress wall, inadvertently transporting her party into the Fade, where they found themselves trapped. They encountered what the Inquisitor terms a nightmare demon, in the heart of its domain. When it became apparent that they would be unable to escape while the demon was unoccupied... .” He trailed off, eyes moving down the page.

_She sought atonement_ , Cole had written. _To make amends. More lives would not be lost for her mistakes. Her legacy was failure, but she would not fail in this. Anders was right, after all. Some things are more important than love, or even life. Tell Varric I'm sorry._

Cullen cleared his throat. “Cole says that she... insisted upon remaining behind. She was determined to save their lives. That was all that mattered to her.”

Varric's smile was pained. “That's Hawke for you. Too damn noble for her own good.” He made an airy gesture, “'No, you go on ahead, I'll take care of this.' Typical.”

Cullen folded the report and tucked it into his belt, largely for lack of anything better to do with his hands. Once that task was complete, they twisted together awkwardly. “I'm sorry, Varric. She was a brave woman. I wish I had known her better.”

“A _brave_ woman,” Varric snorted. “She was a madwoman. Getting lost in the Fade... of course it had to be that. After all the crazy shit she got up to, that's... that's just the sort of thing she'd go and do. It wasn't even the first time...” His voice tightened and he looked away, scrubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. “Aw, shit. Get out of here, Curly. You don't want to see me like this.”

Cullen hesitated. Varric's protest had been half-hearted at best. The thought of all the work he'd left undone nagged at him, but it didn't feel right to leave Varric this way. Surely he could spare a few minutes. “It wasn't the first time for what?” he prompted.

“For going into the Fade. She'd been there before,” Varric said, composing himself. “Not physically, of course, her body was still in Kirkwall, but she was _awake._ Not dreaming. Well, not exactly. And that was the _least_ unusual thing about it. There was this boy, you see, and – ” he cut himself off, eyeing Cullen doubtfully. “On second thought, I don't think you'd enjoy hearing _that_ particular tale.”

“How about a different one, then?” Cullen managed a smile. “Surely they can't _all_ be too shocking for me to hear.”

Varric scratched his chin, considering. “I don't suppose I ever mentioned the time we wound up playing Wicked Grace on a ship in the middle of a hurricane? Hawke wagered her title on that hand, and lost. In the end, of course, she managed to work everything out with Ser Tadeus. She was good at that sort of thing.”

He knew that name. “Ser Tadeus? You mean, the pirate captain?”

“The very same. It was all Isabella's fault, as usual, but Hawke being Hawke, she couldn't help but get involved.” Varric brightened, warming to his subject. But then he glanced at Cullen and the look faded. He stared back down at his empty cup. “But it's complicated, in case you didn't pick up on that. And lengthy. And I'm sure you have a big pile of reports to get back to.”

That much was true. But for once, it didn't seem to matter. The reports could wait. The letter could wait. The whispers could return at any moment, but for now they were quiet. Even his headache had vanished. Not to mention that this was to be a story about _pirates._ How could he refuse? “To tell you the truth, Varric,” Cullen said, pulling out a chair. “I think I could use the distraction.”

Varric's eyes widened with disbelief that transitioned quickly into delight. He straightened and signalled the waitress, smiling all the time. “First round's on me, then. Get comfortable, Curly. This is going to be a long night.”


End file.
